Reaching the Breaking Point
by purplegirl2112
Summary: Maybe it all gets a little bit too much. In which, Ed breaks.


**Reaching the Breaking Point (1)**

 _A/N: So. It's been a while, hasn't it? I'm so sorry that I haven't posted in forever. This is something I have been working on sporadically, and I am so happy that I am able to finally give something to you guys. I worked really hard on it. In fact, it's been on the works for almost 2 years? I hope you like it. It's only 2 chapters and I will post the next one by October 28. Thank you all so much, and I love you all. Enjoy._

 _PS you can also read this on AO3. My username is kind_soul. See you there :)_

* * *

When Ed wakes, the sky is still dark, tainted with blue. He bites his tongue when he realizes what  
day it is, and the fact he has woken up by choice. He should be having nightmares. He should be  
plagued by the black monster that was his mother, the suit of armor that is his brother- who should  
be blaming _him_ , and leaving _him_ to find his body- and the little girl he couldn't even save. He  
clenches his hands, and takes a breath to calm himself. He knows this is the karma that he has  
been cheating for years, and every single year, on the anniversary of the day he had committed  
taboo, without fail, the karma comes to take its toll.

 _Equivalent exchange, huh?_ Ed thinks bitterly.

On the only day, he wants, needs, _craves_ the nightmares that haunt him any other day, they go  
away, leaving him with dreamless sleep and peaceful mornings. In a way, he appreciates the  
nightmares, probably the only thing in the world that will accept his actions, as _his_ actions, _his_  
responsibility, _his_ mistake. They agree that he _should_ blame himself, he _should_ take responsibility,  
he _should_ be the one to suffer, and bear the guilt and pain alone. He takes another deep breath  
and begins to acknowledge his surroundings.

Al is seated by the door, immersed in a red, leather bound book. The clock chimes twice, signifying that it is the second hour of the morning, and he hurries out, leaving the red book open on the cold, wooden floor.

Ed takes the opportunity and pulls on his red coat, hot bothering to change out of the loose, black tank top and black pants he  
already has on.

He jumps out of the window, landing on the hard concrete, automail leg shaking slightly with the weight. He pulls the hood over his head, not bothering to tie his hair up, leaving the golden strands to sway in the wind. His boots are silent on the ground as he begins twisting and turning through the streets of Central.

He appreciates the complexity of the city, giving him the chance to stray from the prying, worrying eyes of his comrades. He licks his chapped lips when his stumps begin to ache, knowing that it will soon rain and that stress, automail, and rain never mix well. He just  
shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at the ground as he walks past the closed shops.

He knows its selfish, to leave his friends to worry over his disappearance as he wallows in his guilt. He hates being selfish, and he manages to convince himself that his merely taking a walk in the early hours of the morning to relax. He knows he is lying to himself, and he knows that he should've stayed with Al and be strong for him, and be normal and pretend nothing is wrong, but its too hard,  
to look at his brother, and accept the fact that his brother doesn't blame him for the loss of his body.

He's being selfish again, and he knows it. It begins to rain, and he swallows the bile in his throat, but after a minute he leans against the wall and dry heaves, seeing as he didn't eat dinner. He never does, not today, nor the day before, nor the day after. His stomach is never able to take the guilt of eating on the day he took away that luxury from Al.

Ed stumbles into a dark alleyway. He has lost count how many times he has dry heaved, occasionally vomiting stomach acids, many times tempted to collapse, but pushing it away. He won't be found by his friends collapsed from exhaustion on the grimy streets of Central. He won't show weakness. Ed has worked too hard to let his strong reputation go to waste. They don't understand that the more they treat him as if he was a child, the more he wants it, the more he crumbles, the more he can't take it anymore.

He doesn't turn away, but instead walks straight to the crates at the end of alleyway. He doesn't know why, but the crates look so appealing to him. The sane part of his brain is telling him it's because the fatigue is crippling his logic. He transmutes his automail arm into a blade and opens the crate nearest to him open, driven by the exhaustion that is pushing him to his limits. His instincts are going wild, but they're veiled by the sheer _tiredness_ that runs deep in his bones. Today is worse than most anniversaries. He's not usually as reckless as this, but maybe it's because of Nina, and the bitterness, the rage, the hurt that still churns in him, along with all the pent-up pain that he's carried since he was a child.

He doesn't know what he will find, and he knows it's dangerous, but he won't run away. He's too tired to do that. His blade cuts through the wood easily and he raises an eyebrow at the countless blades inside, shining in the golden light of the sun that had just risen. Ed picks a knife up in a trance, the steel blade glinting. He brings his flesh arm up to the light, and the blade slices easily through the pale skin, creating a shallow cut on his arm. He laughs in glee at the crimson blood flowing down his arm, and sighs in relief. it's a nice distraction from the burden that he carries internally.

He slides down, back to the wall, and makes another cut, and another cut, and another cut. His arm becomes completely littered with small cuts, and he frowns as he stops. The dull pain and sorrowful ache has returned. He shrugs and slits his wrist, the only part of his arm that has not fallen prey to the blood-covered blade, creating a deep cut. The pain and ache slinks away, giving way to a warm feeling that makes him shiver. Finding no space on his arm anymore, he rolls up his pant leg to reveal a pale white canvas, waiting to be painted with thick crimson.

He grins.

XXXXXXX

Colonel Roy Mustang does not expect to be shaken awake by the shrill ring of the telephone piercing the thick, morning fog on a sluggish Sunday. Nor does he expect the sound of Al's shy, hollow voice as it wails through the black phone, shrieking about Fullmetal, missing, gone, nowhere, _Fullmetal?_ and anniversaries.

"Wait, wait, Alphonse," Roy says, cutting the younger boy off. "What happened?"

Al stops, and takes what sounds like a deep breath.

"Alright, well I was reading a book and I left so that Brother could leave and take a walk like he always does today-"

"What happened today?" Roy interrupts, confused and sleepy, having being woken up at the mere hour of 5'o clock in the morning.

There is a sharp pause before Al whispers a reply. "Today is the day we committed human transmutation,"

Roy curses, knowing this couldn't be good news. "Alright, please continue,"

"He usually comes back at 3, but it's 5 and I'm getting worried,"

His eyebrows furrow. What the _hell_ was that kid was doing?

"I'll try my best to find him," he finally says, and places the phone back in its cradle. He picks it up again after a few seconds and dials a number seared into his soul.

"Hello?" his first lieutenant's voice is calm, steady, and collected, and it soothes him. He takes a breath.

"Fullmetal has gone missing," he tells her in a grave voice. He doesn't know why he's so worried. His subordinate has already gone missing many times before, and he's always returned relatively unscathed, but he has this gut feeling that after today, he won't be able to look at the boy in the same way again.

There is a pause at the other end of the line. "How many hours, sir?"

"Only 3. He's been missing since 2 in the morning," he replies, uncertain to where this is  
heading.

"I'm afraid we won't be able to call in the military search team, sir. The minimum requirement for hours missing to call in the search team is 32 hours," she informs him.

His temper rises significantly. "Go call in the crew, then!" he snaps, before taking a breath. "I'm sorry, just, please call in the others."

Riza pauses. "Sir, permission to speak freely?"

"Permitted," he agrees, running a hand through his face, leaning against the headboard of his bed.

"We'll find him, sir."

He allows a small smile.

"Thanks, Riza," he says sincerely, before placing the phone back into its cradle.

He sighs.

XXXXXXX

They are 6 hours in the search, and the rain is pouring down harder then they have ever seen.

Roy is doing everything he can, but it seems as is it is not enough. He is annoyed, tired, hungry, and  
frustrated out of his mind. The team is sending him glances when they think he can't see, but he  
can clearly feel their gazes on his hunched back. His chair is swiveled towards the window, and he's calling all his sources in, but he can't do a damn thing.

He stands suddenly, and all in his office looks at him. It's incredibly quiet, and the slightest sound  
makes them jump. He glances at his first lieutenant, and she nods, almost imperceptibly.

They walk out of the office in quiet synchronization. He pulls his blue coat on, takes his hat off the hat  
stand, and takes a deep breath as he opens the doors that leads out. He almost laughs at the irony  
of breathing. The very thing that keeps him alive, is the very thing that gives him the power to kill. Roy has already mulled over the thought of burning each member of the military search department, and whoever who made the limited requirement of 32 hours to call in the search team.

Anything could happen in 32 hours, hell, someone could die in a split second, and he should know.

Riza pulls a black umbrella over their heads, and gives him a small smile. He nods, and they walk  
into the rain.

XXXXXXX

They are not sure what to think when they hear the people whispering of a golden man, hunched in the 23rd alley of the quiet, shopping avenue near the busiest street of the city. Terror runs dominantly through their veins, and although the sky is turning dark, and their lungs and legs are giving up, the fear, the adrenaline, the sheer horror of what they don't know they will find, is the  
only thing pushing them forward.

They have long forgotten their black umbrella, and it lays  
abandoned somewhere along the side of the river. Their fingers are interlocked, but they don't care what other people are thinking.

When they finally reach the alley, they are in no way prepared for what they see.

* * *

 _A/N: And that's it for now! Tell me what you think, favorite, share, and don't forget to follow so you get updated when the next chapter is posted. Thanks guys, and sorry again._

 _Love you all!_

 _xoxo_


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